


How Much?

by Anonymous



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Angst, Arthur Finds Out, Arthur-centric, Canon-Typical Violence, Community: tavern_tales, Crossdressing, Episode: s04e10 The Herald of a New Age, Explicit Sexual Content, Fate & Destiny, Genderbending, M/M, Other, Porn With Plot, Prostitution, Romance, Self-Discovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-06-05 10:11:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6700789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur's had more than enough death for one day. He's only looking for a temporary escape, but what – and who – he finds in a remote tavern challenges everything his father's raised him to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Son of the Dragon

**Author's Note:**

> Expanded, edited repost of commentfic originally written for [Tavern Tales](http://tavern-tales.livejournal.com) November 2015 theme [Buyin' it, Sellin' it, Savin' it](http://tavern-tales.livejournal.com/17222.html). Thank you, TT!
> 
> This is initially set ca. Arthur's first raid on a Druid camp (as recounted in S4ep10) and re-imagines things from there, with a very different sort of initial A/M encounter and subsequent dynamic. I always struggle with tagging stuff set in canon era wrt gender and sexuality; if my tags concern you, please see the end notes for more details. Otherwise, just sit back - yes that's it, put your feet up - drink up, and go with it. I promise it's mostly OTP feelings and smut wrapped up in a guise of speculative world-building and plotting, because that's how I roll in the Tavern. ;-) Also, apologies to any Old English/Anglo Saxon scholars for probable butchery of appropriate syntax and inflections.

_"You are a Pendragon, son. And Pendragon is…what?"_

_"Not just our name, Father, but a sacred duty. War chief, head of our people, first blade in the fray."_

_"Very good. Now stop questioning my strategy and get out…go prove to your men that you actually know the meaning of such words."_

_And he does. Oh, how he does. He rides at the head of the column, chin held high, is the first blade to rush in after the initial volley of flaming arrows._

_So he is the first to realise that the "sentries" are no more than bundles of rags propped up on tent poles, the "warriors" the elderly and wounded in disguise, hoping to delay the attack until the last of the women and children get away._

_But by then it's too late. The order has been given and passed down the line, the air is thick with bloodlust and smoke from the burning tents. The latter grows so thick that they're forced to withdraw and form a ring around the camp, waiting for any survivors to attempt escape._

_"Leave none alive!" Cador shouts, spurring his horse from man to man as Arthur sits numbly atop his poor stallion, listening to the screams. He cannot find his tongue to counter the order, and soon it echoes back in other voices. When Owain looks to him, eyes panic-wide, Arthur just nods and lifts his crossbow. He tells himself that a skilled shot is a better death by far than being roasted alive or choking on hot smoke. He just wants the screaming to stop._

_After, his guilt is so great that petty lies are nothing. He doesn't meet the men's eyes, doesn't look back as he rides away. Once he is certain that he's not being followed, he doubles back at a gallop, heading east, for Essetir. He leaves his colours at the border._

* * *

"Arrogant whelp."

Panting, Arthur watches as his latest challenger cuts the purse from his belt and flings it down along with the muttered insult. He could have the man's head for the comment – if he were home, on the training ground, he'd have little choice – but Arthur's had more than enough death for one day. 

He knocks back what's left in his tankard, waiting until the man's stumbled off before sinking onto the bench and mopping his face on his shirttail. His body aches, his sweat reeks of smoke and ale – he'd wager his innards are half-pickled by now – and going by the red smears on his shirt, he's re-opened the gash on his temple, but in his mind he's still miles from having earned any sort of rest. 

He glances around the tavern, hoping for a fresh distraction, and sees that it's later than he'd realised. Candles are burnt down to stubs; the great hearth fire is a mound of charred log ends and glowing ash. What men remain drowse where they sit or are tucked into corners with newfound companions. 

The low, straining, animal noises they make bring a whole new type of fever to his cheeks, make him aware of the shameful fullness between his legs, cock half-roused from the stench and heat of the man who'd been in his arms – no matter that it'd been an honest pummelling, and nothing to do with lust.

"You there," he rasps when he spies the minx who's been behind the bar much of the night. Slim hips and a sharp tongue, hair bound up in cloth the same bright blue as her eyes – a shade far too fine for her surroundings. He's surprised no one's yet sought her company. He lifts his empty tankard, gestures for a refill.

She makes no reply, but soon enough she's at his side with a fresh jug of ale. For the first time he notices the heavy rings on her fingers, the lace choker at her neck dripping with amber and crystals. He wonders at her boldness in flaunting such favours in rough company – wondering, too, what exactly she'd done to earn them.

He waits until she's finished pouring, then places his hand on her wrist. 

She arches one dark brow, but doesn’t pull away. "Is there something else I can fetch you, m'lord?" 

She's got generous lips. Pink, but unpainted. Voice low and lilting – almost mocking, just like the curve of her smile. Arthur hasn't quite known what to do with it. Until now. 

"How much?" he says, staring at her mouth. 

"I'm not sure you're in any condition to – "

"How much?" he repeats, gently squeezing her wrist, lifting his eyes. He watches her nostrils flare, thrilling at her instinctual jerk and flex in response. He revises his opinion of what he wants, of what might be possible. 

She's quick, trim, clearly stronger than she looks. She won’t pity him, nor cry, nor lie there like a corpse. Nor will she coddle him, that's for damn certain, not with the way she's currently sizing him up – for a slap, no doubt. 

He wouldn’t mind a slap from her, he thinks. Might lead somewhere interesting.

He forces himself to smile, tilting his head towards the mound of purses and loose coin beside his tankard. He'd begun the night with dice, losing nearly as often as he'd won, concentrating more on drinking the horrors of the day into submission. But when that had failed, things had turned physical; then, there'd been none who could best him. 

"Come now. Name your price. You can see I'm good for it."

She snorts. "What makes you think I'm for sale?"

"You have a taste for fine things."

"True." She cocks her head, still sizing him up, but now with a more prurient gaze. "And yet, I'll ask again. What makes you think I'm for sale?"

Sighing, he looses her wrist and lifts his hand. She hasn't once glanced at the money, so perhaps he's got it wrong. A nobleman's mistress, then, or some proud merchant's daughter.

He's about to dismiss her – he's in no mood for romance and seduction, even if he were confident of his success – when she sets the jug down and wriggles between him and the table. She bends over it, thrusting her backside nearly in his face. He snorts when he sees what she's about.

"Not for sale, is it?" he says, giving her bottom an appreciative squeeze, then taking her firmly by the hips and trying to pull her down, onto his lap. "And just what do you think you're doing putting those sticky fingers all over my – " 

"Tch! Hang on now, Oh Knight of the Wandering Hands! You asked how much." She twists from his grasp and darts out of reach.

Her eyes are sparkling as she rounds on him. She smoothes her skirts, then points to the first towering stack of coppers that she's arranged on the table. "For _that_ I'll sit in your lap and squirm all you like, tell you I've never been poked by such a fat stick." It's the mocking undertone as much as the words themselves that gets him fully hard. He likes that she dares treat him – and his desires – as ordinary, even faintly ridiculous.

"This will get you my hand as well," she goes on, pointing to the second, taller stack, "and this silver here, my mouth. But…" She puts her hands on her hips. "I'll only be buggered in a proper bed, and not for show, so if that's what you're after you'll have to take a private room for the night."

For a moment Arthur sits tongue-tied, pulse thundering in his ears. Then he surges up from the bench, sweeps the coin stacks into his palm, and snags an arm round her waist, pulling her close against him. She's small-breasted, but there's just enough of a gap showing atop her tightly-laced bodice to shove a few fingers in. 

Emboldened by her soft gasp, he starts feeding the coins down it, hungrily kissing the skin above…then across to her shoulder and up her neck, trying to catch the scent of her hair beneath the cloth. 

"And what if I want your cunt, hm?" he murmurs, nuzzling an earlobe, nipping at the choker round her throat. She shivers in his grasp, then he hears a rich, breathy chuckle.

"You can call it whatever you want, m'lord, but if you want to put your cock in it, you'll still have to take the room."

* * *

It's not what he's expecting. None of it – not the cosy room with a stack of books on the dressing table and bundles of herbs drying on the wall; not the sturdy, well-carved furniture, including a proper bed covered in a thick, gaily-striped blanket. This isn't just any room, he realises. And despite all the contradictions – what would a whore want with books? – he knows instinctively that it _is_ hers.

As soon as the door is bolted she's on him, clutching his head and plying him with an eager, honey-scented kiss. It's rather unexpected as well, but not at all unwelcome. It's artless, demanding, not tender in the least. It's exactly what he needs.

"All night," she whispers as she steps back, trailing her hand down his cheek. She reaches for his belt. "All night I've been hoping…"

"What?"

"That you'd get your head out of your arse, m'lord – or whatever horror hole you'd drunk yourself into – and _see_ me." She says it so softly, so earnestly, that the sting of it doesn't register until she's got his belt off and her hands at his laces. She cocks her head, smiling, and he's shocked to realise that they are nearly of a height. 

"Though perhaps that's unfair," she goes on, "as I got a good look at your arse on the way up, and it's…Well, let's just say I quite envy your tailor, not to mention your horse. Now, do you want my mouth first, or – "

He grabs her by the back of the neck and crushes their lips together, fumbling at her headcloth with his other hand, trying to loosen it.

"Off," he mutters out the side of his mouth before licking into hers, pleased by the honey, but desperate for what's beneath. He needs this to be honest, raw – or as much as it can be with a whore. He wants to be used, to smell like someone else come morning.

She makes a keening noise into his mouth, struggling to get her hands up between them.

"Wait," she pants as he finds the hidden knot and starts to tug. "It's not… Let me."

He releases her head but catches hold of her waist, keeping her close as she lifts her arms. He can hear the coins shifting, jangling in her bodice.

She angles her head this way, then that, lips squashed in an endearing moue as she deftly unknots and unwraps the cloth. He's already lost in a vision of a tumbling cloud of fine hair, of burying his face in it and letting it hide him from the world, so it takes him a moment to catch up when the last length of blue falls away to reveal…

"I don't have lice, if that's what you're wondering," she says fiercely, scrubbing a hand through the cropped sheaf. 

Her hair is indeed dark, but short, thick and unruly, curls forming up top and where it grows longer over her ears. She looks like a boy – a dangerously pretty one, the kind that Arthur's heard mothers fret over and fathers disparage at court. "So you can stop blinking at me like a damn – "

"Shh," Arthur says, pressing two fingers across her lips. 

She narrows her eyes, but lets him explore without further comment. She even goes so far as to bow her head after a moment – just the slightest bit, like a fussy mount – and lean into his touch. He rakes her hair up between his fingers, rubs the velvet nap behind her ears. She smells like herbs and fresh bread. 

"Suits you," he murmurs, giving a tug. This earns him a sharp inhale, then a smile that, for once, doesn’t seem the least bit coy. He kisses the edges of it, mouths at her jaw.

"Now this," he says, thumbing the choker. He feels her heavy swallow.

"Oh, that's… Are you sure?" 

He wants her laid bare, doesn't want some other man's gift shivering round her throat as he fucks her, but all he says is, "Unless it's the only thing keeping your head on…" which earns him another quick smile.

"Er, no," she says, extracting herself from his grasp. She jerks her head towards the mattress. "Why don't you take off your boots and wait for me on the bed. I won't be a minute."

Arthur dislikes letting her go, but he does as she asks while she busies herself at the dressing table. With her back to him, she loosens her bodice and fishes the coins out, tucking them away in green silk purse. She slips the purse into a drawer, runs a hand through her hair, and bows her head. 

Arthur watches, rapt, as her hand slides down, smoothing the beaded lace against her neck. She stills for a moment then, with a sigh, straightens up and starts in on the choker's ribbon fastenings. As with the head cloth, she doesn’t rush, but her movements are precise, sure – fingers gleaming as her rings catch the candlelight. 

Soon the piece falls away, revealing the full sweep of her neck. Her skin is slightly reddened, dimpled where the pattern's been pressed into it. It sets Arthur's pulse racing. 

Blood thundering in his ears, he unlaces his trousers, touches himself through his small clothes. A few rough squeezes have him fully hard once more, straining against the linen. He yanks at the ties until they give way, then fumbles his shirt up over his head.

He tugs it off to find Merlin openly staring at him over her shoulder, lips parted, loosened bodice clutched to her chest. She's not looking at his face, and he's taken aback by her expression. He sees intense longing there, raw desire. A hint of nerves, perhaps, but not an ounce of coquetry. It unsettles him, deepens his own want.

Their eyes meet as her gaze slides upward. She nibbles her lower lip, then looks away. "You should let me see to that cut."

Puzzled, Arthur glances down. He's got a few bruises, certainly, but…

"It's nothing," he says, catching sight of the bloodstains on his discarded shirt. He gently probes around the cut on his face, inspects his fingers for fresh blood. "Just a scratch."

"Still – "

He cuts her off with a heated, "That's not what I'm paying you for, you… Dammit, what do I call you?"

She bows her head once more, slides him a sideways glance. "Merlin, m'lord."

Arthur thinks it an odd sort of name but, as with the room, and the hair, it seems to suit her. "I don’t need fussing over, Merlin, save 'twixt my legs. Come, get those bloody skirts off, get over here and make good on those bold eyes of yours."

The look she gives him then – _oh_ , he thinks it could quicken a dead man. He'd thought to take her from behind, as he's done in his previous tumbles, but that look gives him other ideas. He's never been so aroused, and certainly not by a woman.

"Very well," she says, rising. The flush on her cheeks has spread to her ears. "Just let me…prepare."

Before Arthur can respond she's retreated to the far corner, behind a wooden screen. He snorts, both annoyed and amused by such modesty given the circumstances. He stands to rid himself of his trousers and small clothes, adding them to the pile beside his boots. "Hasn't any man told you half the pleasure's in looking?"

"Not for this part," she calls out, an odd strain in her voice. Then she adds, "You might want to douse the candles."

Arthur pulls back the blanket and settles on the bed, arms crossed behind his head. "Why on earth would I want to do that?"

"I find it helps with the illusion."

"And what illusion is that, pray tell?"

"That I'm a…" She pokes her head out from behind the screen, brow furrowed. "That I am as you wish me to be."

"I wish you to be naked, Merlin, and sat here on my lap." He drags one arm down, curling his hand round his cock and angling it skyward, just so there's no misunderstanding. "I wish you to ride me, for a start," he adds. "Take your pleasure if you can."

Her expression shifts, eyes widening before she disappears back behind the screen. Arthur wonders if he's shocked her – though he'd thought whores immune to such – or if she finds the idea distasteful. Perhaps she thinks him weak, too drunk to take an active role.

Not that he cares, of course. She's just an evening's release, bought and over-paid for. She's just…

"Do you really mean that?" Re-emerging from behind the screen, she walks towards him. She's still wearing her damn shift, clutching it at chest and groin, holding the thin garment out in front as if it chafes.

"That's not naked," Arthur observes, arching an eyebrow. When she doesn't immediately respond, he removes his hand from his cock and opens his arms, saying, "And yes, I do. Come, Merlin. I see by your eyes that I do not displease you, coin or no, so _use_ me. Show me that a man may be good for more than killing."

For a moment she stares at him, eyes flashing, a fierce blush on her cheeks – and there is something he's missing here, he's sure of it; it's as if they've been speaking at cross-purposes all night – then she lowers her eyes and joins him on the bed. She doesn't fall into his arms, however, but crawls between his legs, taking hold of his thighs and pushing them further apart.

"What are you – "

"My pleasure, m'lord," she cuts in, wriggling down onto her belly. "Take my pleasure, is what you said, and I wish to taste you first."

And with that she opens her mouth, tilts her head, and places her tongue against the base of his cock.

Arthur gasps at the sudden warm, wet pressure – starting low then dipping lower, suckling his balls and tickling some tender spot beneath; then sliding up his shaft until she's teasing the crown with tiny flicks of her tongue. His cock moves of its own accord, jerking against her plush lips.

She smiles, glancing up at him from beneath her lashes for one too-long, devastating moment before she takes him in hand, makes a wide "O" of her mouth, and swallows him down. 

He flings an arm across his face, biting into his own flesh to keep from crying out. He can feel her teeth as well. Nothing too painful, just a slight, rough drag along the shaft – just enough to keep him on edge. He fists his other hand in the blankets and cranes his neck so he can watch her dark head bobbing between his thighs.

She's sweating at the temples now, ears flushed a bright red. She sucks him hard and sloppy, like she's in a hurry to finish him off – and to be honest, without the tempering effects of the ale, she might have already succeeded – but her expression isn't one of boredom or distaste. She seems happy as a pig in mud. In fact, when he looks beyond her face, he notices that she's literally squirming, the jaunty rounds of her bum plain as day through the sheer linen. 

Arthur's mouth waters at the sight, filling his throat, threatening to choke him. She's clenching and releasing, rutting against the mattress like a stud animal and… _oh god_ he wants that. Wants to thrust, but to be thrust against as well. Held down. Fucked. Mounted like a – 

He lifts his arm, sucking down spit, gasping for air as he looks away. 

_"Ripe little bitch."_

He can still hear his father's voice, the faint chuckle behind it. Remembers his own mortification when his father caught him eyeing the bare-chested kennel boy rather than the dog. Can picture the keen eyes and severe brow. 

_"You are no longer a child, Arthur, far from it. It's time you prove that to the men. There've been reports of Druids gathering along the eastern border…"_

"M'lord? Is something amiss?"

She's only just pulled off, is cradling his cock to her cheek with spit-wet fingers and blinking up at him.

He gives a sharp shake of his head, rasping out, "But enough of that now, you teasing wretch. Give me what I've paid for." 

She scrunches her lips into an exaggerated pout. "Oh very well," she huffs, not sounding the least bit upset. She releases his cock and grabs his thighs instead, pushing down hard as she gets her legs under her, then shuffles into a kneeling position between his legs. 

She looms over him for a moment, giving him the once-over as she wipes her mouth on the back of one hand. There's a smile in her eyes, paired with that steady, raw hunger he'd glimpsed before – an unabashed eagerness that makes his skin feel as if it's been boiled down a size. He gives in to it, willing his mind back to the present, and studies her in return. Bold jaw. Wide mouth. Long fingers.

"Not to swell your head, m'lord," she murmurs, "but I rather think I'm getting the better end of the bargain."

His eyes are drawn to her neck as she swallows, and he sees what he'd missed before – what she'd tried to keep hidden. It's sharp. Obvious. Ringed by a faint shadow of stubble where she's sweated through her powder. And down below, at her groin, an even more telling bulge…

The truth doesn’t sink in so much as slap him upside the head. Flat chest. Slim hips. Broad shoulders. Stronger than she looks. 

Stronger than _he_ looks.

"You – " he gets out just as Merlin clambers atop him and spins around, kneeling astride with her… _his_ back facing Arthur, and rucks the shift up to hip-level.

"Yes?" Merlin says, pausing. He doesn’t look back, but he turns his face enough so Arthur can see it in profile, and it's all there, plain as day. A beautiful young man, to be sure, with something fey about the eyes and mouth, but not a woman. Never like any woman he's ever known.

"You're…" Arthur swallows, gaze dropping to the bared arse, pale rounds of muscle brushing against his own ruddy cock. To the dark cleft, and the hint of something dangling between Merlin's downy thighs. 

He should be horrified. Disgusted. He knows this. He should be angry at the ruse, feel ashamed of falling for it. At the very least he should find Merlin pitiable.

Yet Arthur knows in a sobering instant that he could turn his soul inside out, could fast day and night on his knees, and would find none of these emotions. All he's got is wonder and a kindling hope that this terrible longing of his is not so rare, nor so unspeakable, as it seems.

Merlin is still waiting, clutching the bunched hem of the shift at his waist.

"Go on," Arthur says roughly, pushing up onto an elbow. He can't stop staring, reworking the details in light of this new knowledge. The thrill it gives him is visceral – a clench in his balls, a dribble of clear spend. When he reaches out he's surprised to find his hand steady. "I want to see you, Merlin. As you are."

He hears the faint gasp as Merlin inhales, is mesmerised by the way it pulls everything taut. There's a hollow just above the cleft of his arse, like a dagger's tip, that Arthur wants to touch – wants to mash his thumb, his cock, his tongue up against – but he doesn’t quite dare. Not yet.

He plucks at the shift instead, nudging Merlin's fingers, suddenly panicked that this dalliance is only allowed if he keeps up the pretence. "Don't tell me you're shy, you little minx, as I won’t believe you. Go on, let me see…show me how wet you are for me." 

Arthur doesn't catch Merlin's muttered response as he works the shift off over his head and tosses it to the floor, too taken with the tidy span of his back, all smooth planes and shallow grooves punctuated by sharp ridges of bone. His skin is pale as Morgana's, save for the odd mole and a faint birthmark below his left shoulder blade. He's just sitting up a bit more, trying to work out what it reminds him of when Merlin levels him with a quelling look over his shoulder.

"Lie back, m'lord. Be still a moment while I seat myself."

"Turn around?" Arthur doesn’t mean to voice it as a question, wonders that he's dared say it at all when he sees Merlin's alarm, but once it's out there he finds his resolve. He'll pretend if he has to with his words, but he still wants to _see._

"Please, I… any common whore may moan her false pleasure. How am I meant to judge the real thing if I cannot see your face?"

Merlin narrows his eyes, staring at Arthur – in puzzlement? ire? – for a long moment before looking away and bowing his head, loosely hugging himself.

And the worst of it, the absolute worst, is Arthur's realisation that he wants more than anything to sit up and take Merlin in his arms, to be able to explain how much truth simmers beneath the lie, how he wants whatever Merlin's willing to give him so long as he's not being coddled, and the pleasure is real.

"Forgive me, but – " Merlin breaks off with a shiver, and Arthur doesn’t miss the subtle change in his voice. It's lower still, the tone bitter as quince. " – much as I may desire it, you have not paid for my honest pleasure, m'lord, but my cunt. My wet cunt, as it were, and whilst I'm more than happy to indulge that fantasy, I don't think it best served by – "

"I know," Arthur cuts in desperately, surging up to grasp Merlin by the hips. Then, in an effort to explain, he says, "That is, I know what you are hiding, but not what you wish me to see, to say to you. I would have you… By god, Merlin, I would have you either way, but please know that your form…" 

He tightens his hold, making free with his thumbs and bowing his head, nuzzling his lips against Merlin's spine. "You are pleasing to me as well," he mumbles. "Very much so. I never thought to find such a creature as you. I did not know you existed."

There is a horrible pause. Arthur holds his breath, still stroking Merlin's skin, hearing Merlin's breath in turn and both their hearts hammering so as to beat down doors.

"Nor I you," Merlin says at last, pushing back into his embrace. "What is your name?"

"I… I am Arthur," Arthur says, skimming his hands from hips to elbows and up along Merlin's arms. And just so Merlin understands the risk he's taking here – what he is willing to offer – he adds, "Arthur Pendragon, son of Uther. Heir to the throne of Camelot."

Merlin shudders, groans. Arthur doesn't understand the stream of gibberish that comes next, but he swears he sees the candles flare, the room lit brightly for an instant – Merlin's back arching, the mark beneath his shoulder blade glowing gold – before his hands are pushed away. 

"You!" Merlin gasps, flipping round and crawling atop him. The shock – the heady delight – of his furred nipples and bobbing prick is muted by the fire in his eyes. He grabs for Arthur's hand, is kissing his mother's ring before Arthur's processed what is happening. "I've heard of – I've _dreamt_ of you. They said… Yet I never dreamed you'd be – "

"Hush," Arthur says, laying his finger across Merlin's lips. He's nervous enough at the stark reality of the body before him, and Merlin's words aren't helping. 

"Let me," he says, finding the meat of one arsecheek with his other hand and kneading it, spreading it apart from its twin. "Let me have you."

Neither of them speak again until they are beyond the nudging and fumbling, until Arthur is buried in – is being squeezed by – that slick heat, is cradling Merlin's cock in one hand and his face in another, terrified out of his fucking mind at the ache in his chest, saying nothing more profound than, "Yes" and "Oh _god_ yes" to Merlin's murmur of, "Faster, Arthur, please."

It is sweeter than Arthur has ever dared imagine. Merlin is handsy and shamelessly vocal as he works himself on Arthur's cock; he can't seem to get enough of kissing, even when it throws their rhythm off, and pawing at Arthur's chest and thighs. 

It is simpler, too. Messy, yes, and not particularly graceful, but they fit in ways that defy what Arthur's been told: that men may take one another like beasts, in violence or out of desperation, but that there can be no shared pleasure in it; that such couplings are imperfect by nature's design, and can never truly satisfy.

He wants to crow in triumph when Merlin tenses up and, with a gurgling moan and frantic pumping of hips, spends all over Arthur's belly and chest. He's too busy gasping for air, however. Too busy grabbing for Merlin's arse – squeezing and spreading the flesh, bucking up into the maddening clench as if it's possible to go deeper, to feel more perfectly sheathed as he edges nearer the brink. 

"Gah," Merlin pants, pitching forward with a gormless expression. He catches himself on Arthur's chest, smearing the mess. 

The pressure on Arthur's cock eases somewhat and he redoubles his grip, beginning to bounce Merlin in time with his frantic thrusts. With a woman he'd be pulling out now, ever-conscious of his father's grim warnings about bastards and greedy whores, finishing across her back or into his own fist. But that's not a worry now, and Merlin doesn't seem at all inclined to let him go. He winces, then smiles at Arthur as he settles into the new rhythm.

"That's... _ooh_ yes, keep up, you lazy sod, give it a good poke. Can't expect me to do all the work just 'cause you're a handsome pr– _ah, aah_!" He flings his head back as Arthur starts to come, burbling away in that strange tongue. The candles go funny again, flaring bright before guttering in an invisible wind, and Arthur's heartbeat seems to drag in his chest.

He can't be fussed, however. He's too busy emptying his balls – for the first time in his life – deep inside another's heat, feeling as if he's cheated death itself.

* * *

Arthur can't move. There's a hot lump in his throat, breathing's a chore – though mostly due to Merlin's deadweight sprawled atop him – and his eyes seem to be leaking without his say-so. He feels warm, content and terrifyingly sober. 

"What have you done to me?" he whispers. The nest of black hair at his chin shifts, tickling his neck, and one blue eye peers up at him.

"Rode you too well, by the look of it."

"But that was… The magic. I saw. I _heard_ you. What – "

"Hush." Merlin smears a thumb across Arthur's lips, lifting his head up to follow it with a proper kiss. Then, with a groan, he pushes up, taking the warmth with him. Arthur feels his cock slip free in a gush of spend. Some instinct makes him grab for Merlin's wrist, but he doesn’t know what he means by it until he sees the soft way Merlin is looking at him.

"I'll be back," Merlin murmurs, tilting his head towards the far corner. "I've just got to…"

Arthur grunts in acknowledgment, turning his face to hide the unwanted tears and whatever else it is that Merlin thinks he sees. 

Merlin rolls off him, then pushes off the bed, pausing to stretch and gather his discarded shift. Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur catches his wince as he straightens up, and feels a creeping shame on top of everything else. He plucks at the blankets as Merlin slips behind the screen, trying to find the words to ask if he's hurt him somehow, wounded him inside.

"It's not against the law, you know," Merlin calls out. "Not here."

Arthur startles. "What?"

"Magic. The nearest Camelot lands are half a day's ride, at least. Beyond Whistle Brook and over the ridge."

"Yes, I…" Arthur shivers, dragging himself up to a seated position. "Thank you, I am well aware of that."

"And I didn't do anything to you. Well, not on purpose, but when I'm really happy my healing magic tends to…leak. So if you're missing any scrapes or bruises…"

Frowning, Arthur examines his knuckles – not swollen – then prods at his temple. The skin is unbroken. He rolls his shoulders, twists his torso. There's no saddle stiffness, nor bruises from the fighting. The old scar on his calf, souvenir of his first boar hunt, looks fainter as well.

Magic. _Sorcery._ Arthur's been taught to distrust it, and he's seen the damage it can do in the hands of those seeking vengeance. But Morgana is forever in his ear about the injustice of banning all magics, of beheading simple herb women and warlocks for helping their neighbours. And Merlin's right. Camelot's laws have no power here – Arthur left his arresting privileges at the border along with his colours – and he can hardly take umbrage at being inadvertently patched up in the throes of passion.

He's not going to demand to be pummelled back into a sorrier shape, at any rate. He'll go see Gaius when he returns, just to be safe, and ask him what he knows about healing magic.

"… your own fault," Merlin is saying. He emerges wearing the shift once more, carrying a basin and cloth. 

Arthur scowls at him. "I beg your pardon?"

He clucks his tongue as he approaches. "Now, now. Don’t be cross, you big lump. I only meant it as a compliment. I haven't had it that good since…well. Never. Clearly my magic approves." He settles at Arthur's hip, meeting his eyes briefly before busying himself with the cloth, wiping down Arthur's chest.

Flustered, Arthur runs a hand through his hair, fidgets. "You shouldn't… You can't speak to me like that."

Merlin glances up, lifting an eyebrow. "Can't I?" He's washing Arthur's cock now, which somehow feels far more intimate than when he'd put it in his mouth. "I see no point in lying. Plus I'd say we're well past formalities."

"I meant calling me a lump."

Merlin snorts softly, cracking a smile. "Oh but you are! A lovely lump of a man…prince. A royal lump, as it were." The smile fades. He gives Arthur's balls a gentle tug, lifting them so he can swipe the cloth down behind. "I bet you've got them lining up for you back home. Or is one given to you special, to warm your bed?"

"One what?" Arthur squirms at the sensation of the damp cloth against his most tender bits.

"Boy."

"There is a fellow who tends my chambers, yes, but – "

"Ah." Merlin sighs. "And he never talks back, is that it? Never tells you just how he likes it?"

"Morris isn't… Good god, he's my _manservant,_ not a bed slave." Arthur bats Merlin's hands away and scoots out of reach. "My father would never permit such self-indulgence, and certainly not with a man. I've never…" Arthur trails off, suddenly feeling foolish in his inexperience. "There is no one," he says stiffly, crossing his arms over his chest. "Pendragons sleep alone."

Merlin gawps at him, a vexing array of emotions crossing his face that Arthur can't interpret. 

"I see," he says at last, dropping the cloth into the basin. He gets up, heading towards the door, and Arthur hugs himself tighter, hands clenched into fists. "Well, you'd best pick a new name for the night, m'lord, else you'll be in with the pigs and horses."

"Hang on, I've already paid for the room!"

"For a room, yes." Merlin sets the basin on a bench by the door, plucks a candle snuffer from a nearby hook, and shoots Arthur an arch look over his shoulder. "But not to sleep _alone_ in it. So either shift that lovely arse under those blankets and get to warming _my_ bed, or you can sod off to the barn."

Arthur huffs, far more relieved than he'd care to admit, and starts tugging back the blankets. "Scandalous thing, your tongue. You really have no idea how to address your betters, do you?"

Merlin sticks the very thing out at him as he makes his rounds, snuffing out candles. "I find it works perfectly well, in fact, especially when applied to pompous asses." 

"Merlin!" Arthur can't help but laugh, more from nerves than anything else. He's heard bawdy talk before, and not just from whores, but for a man to flirt with him so openly – and in the same breath as such insolence – was previously unimaginable.

"Ooh, I've shocked you now, have I?" He pauses at the fat pillar candle on the dressing table, lays the snuffer down next to it. "Think I'll leave this one lit so I can see your blushes."

"Shut up." Arthur settles in under the blankets, aware of how small the bed is compared to his own. He wonders if Merlin will shed the shift before coming to bed or intends to sleep in it. Either way they'll be touching. There's no avoiding it. "I do hope you're not going to prate on at me all night."

"Oh no." Smiling, Merlin crawls in beside him and presses close, reaching for Arthur's face. "Not if you give me something better to do with my mouth."

Kissing is newly strange. There's no bravado or calculated seduction; it's no longer part of the frantic climb towards release. Yet it still feels charged somehow. Intense. There's nothing to distract Arthur from noticing the way Merlin tastes, the sounds he makes and the different scents of skin and hair, the tiny shifts in their on-going battles of teeth and tongue and whose nose goes where. 

There's nothing to distract him from the discovery that in this, too – being gathered close and kissed by a man, softly, thoroughly – there is such profound pleasure. Awkward or no, it is a much nicer way to end the day than staring into the gloom at an ancient canopy or mound of pompous cushions. 

"I can hear you thinking," Merlin murmurs. 

"What?" Arthur jerks back in alarm. "Stop. Don't do that."

"No, not... No magic. I promise." Merlin tugs on his neck, soothing him with a thumb. Arthur can tell he's trying not to smile. "I only meant that you seem preoccupied."

"I…oh." Arthur sighs. He pulls Merlin's hand off his neck, but keeps hold of it as he settles onto his back. "It's been a long day."

Merlin makes no move to retrieve his hand, just props his head up on his other arm, watching as Arthur begins idly playing with his rings. "My silence comes with the room, you know, so if there's anything you'd like to get off your chest…"

Arthur shakes his head. The horrors of the day haven't gone away, but what's done is done. It's as if the memories are behind a heavy curtain. He knows he'll force himself to look behind it one day, to see the raid for what it was – for all that his father will claim it a victory – but he's not ready to relive it so soon.

"Well, whatever you are running from, Arthur Pendragon, I am glad you stopped here. And not just for the generosity of your purse."

Arthur glances over. He's struck again by Merlin's odd beauty, the jumble of strong and sensuous features that had first drawn his eye. They are from such vastly different worlds. He has no real reason to trust the man, however skilled or sincere his affections. Yet there had been that frenzied moment of recognition upon hearing Arthur's name, the obeisance of kissing Ygraine's ring…

"As am I," Arthur murmurs, pressing his lips to the back of Merlin's hand. He releases it, and rolls onto his side, mirroring Merlin's pose. He studies his face up close in the flickering candlelight, tracing the sharp brows and cheekbones, fondling an ear, playing with the curling ends of his hair.

"I may not have realised, at first, that you were…as you are, but I did see you. I knew there was something different about you, Merlin, and when you said… What? What is it?"

Merlin's eyes have gone round, his brow furrowed. "You really didn't know?"

"I – " 

"Not about the magic, not any of it!" Merlin clucks his tongue, prods Arthur in the breastbone. "You actually thought I was one of the tarts."

"Aren't you?" 

"A girl, I mean."

"Well… _yes_ , at first. Isn't that what you want people to think?"

Merlin clucks his tongue again, narrowing his eyes. "I don't know how they do things in Camelot, but here most men know a bawdy woman from a skirtswain, and if they don't, the Laigin crystals in the choker are a dead giveaway that it's charmed. Just how drunk were you?"

Arthur releases Merlin's hair. "I don't… _Camelot,_ Merlin, exactly. Prince of. Not a lot of magical jewellery being flashed about at court, so you'll forgive my ignorance, and I've never even heard of a – "

"Skirtswain. Fancy-lad. Disciple of the Triple Goddess? I'm sure there are dozens of less savoury names, but I try not to hear them, and you, of all people, really _should_ learn your basic charm-stones from the nastier sort, as cursed jewellery is very popular with scorned women and assassins."

"I… Well, thank you, Merlin – I think – for that disturbing warning."

Merlin nods. "You're very welcome. On the house."

"And, no, there are none – " Arthur slips his hand between them, fitting it to Merlin's waist, then continuing down until he can feel the sharp jut of hipbone. "There are boys sometimes, when the harvest has been poor, who sell their mouths round the back of the taverns, but a knight would never take advantage, and there are none like you in our brothels. I've never…" Arthur pauses for a breath, searching Merlin's face for any hint of pity or scorn. He finds none.

"There have been women that I was expected to use, to prove that I'm a man, and others I've seduced for the sport of it. Lovely women, for the most part, but they're never… That's not who I think of at night."

"And who do you think of?" Merlin says softly, scuffing his thumb against Arthur's chest.

Arthur shrugs, then realises that the names have no power to shame him here. Merlin doesn't know any of them. 

"Bedwyr," he whispers, closing his eyes for a moment in silent apology to his oldest friend. After that it is easier. "Ranulf, Dinadan, Sir Pellinore…sometimes the kennel boy, or this great brute of a wheelwright who turns up every spring." Arthur squeezes Merlin's hip and leans in, angling his head for a kiss. "And now there is you."

Merlin sucks in a startled breath. Arthur sees his nostrils flare, feels the tension in his muscles. His gaze flits between Arthur's eyes and his mouth. He swallows heavily, licks his lips. "And what do you imagine doing?"

"I don't – "

"Show me." It's said breathlessly, but there's steel beneath. He strokes Arthur's throat, pushes into his hand. "Please, Arthur, show me. Nothing you want could possibly… I mean, I'd rather not be buggered again just now, but I can make it nearly as tight and slick between my thighs, and you know I'd love to taste – oh, _oh_."

Arthur hears the initial faltering of Merlin's speech – just as he starts to move. But by the time he's thrown off the blankets and settled on his belly, legs parted as wide as the shared mattress allows, all he's aware of is the blood rushing in his ears and pooling in his face.

_"Ripe little bitch."_

He hears it still. Only problem is, just now he's having trouble remembering the shame of it. Just now he's got Merlin's hand splayed on his lower back and cool air tickling his balls; just now he's thrusting his arse up to Merlin's breathy, "By the Triple Goddess, you are… Oh, Arthur, _yes,_ " and never before in his life has he so wanted to be exactly this: someone's thing, someone's pleasure, someone's ripe little bitch. 

Arthur has no words for what comes next. It's not the forced submission or rough claiming that he's imagined, but it leaves its mark all the same. 

Merlin removes his shift and lies atop him, nuzzling the back of his neck, murmuring, "I promise you, you're not the only man to want such things. It's just that most are never brave enough to ask."

He gives Arthur his full weight for a moment, blanketing him in touch – hot clusters of kisses, palms stroking the backs of his arms, the squashy press of balls and softened prick against his crack – then slides down, trailing kisses along his spine, pausing to add, "Nor so beautiful as you." 

Arthur squirms at the praise as much as the shivery sensation of lips and tongue where none have been before. 

"Really," Merlin continues, sighing gustily against Arthur's tailbone, "you'd think _one_ of them might have mentioned it."

"Hm?" Arthur says absently, pillowing his head on his arms, trying to keep still.

"The old ones. They prophesy the great king you will become. Your courage is never in doubt, nor your good heart. But in my dreams…" Merlin kisses the same spot, flicking his tongue into the top of Arthur's cleft, gently squeezing the muscle on either side. "…I only saw symbols, vague outlines. I never imagined _this_ , was never warned I might lose my wits at the sight of you like a lovesick maid."

"What…what did you imagine?" Prophecies are for the weak-minded, Arthur knows, those too lazy or powerless to forge their own destinies, but his curiosity gets the better of him when it comes to Merlin's dreams.

Merlin chuckles, the vibrations making Arthur clench his groin and thighs. "I assumed you'd be _ancient_ by the time our paths crossed, all craggy and bearded, your fighting muscle melted into a nice round tum."

Arthur fights the nervous urge to laugh. "You sound almost disappoint– "

"Never," Merlin cuts in, giving Arthur's arse another squeeze, then nipping a kiss onto one cheek. It has more than a hint of teeth – a strange sensation, like a slow pinch, but not unpleasant. Arthur's face burns at the thought that he might quite like Merlin to pinch his bottom.

"Now – and Arthur, this is important – if I start doing anything you don't like, if you want me to stop or just slow down, or explain what I'm about to do first, you must tell me so."

Arthur grunts in response, too embarrassed for words. His cock has swollen anew, stiff and sensitive against the rough bed linens; his balls feel tender – heavy and impossibly full given the way he'd earlier spent himself inside Merlin.

"Arthur?"

Arthur squeezes everything tight, then lets go, pushing his arse against Merlin's face. "Yes," he grits out. "Please." 

It's not a word he says easily, nor often – save to his father. Yet here, with Merlin, the plea seems less shameful. Now it wins Arthur, not disappointment or humiliation, but the pleasure of Merlin's hands firmly prying him apart, massaging him _down there_ where no one save he or Gaius – and presumably his nursemaids – have ever touched him. 

Then comes the revelation of Merlin's tongue. Lapping at his cleft like a thirsty hound – warm and wet, bottom to top in a rhythmic slurp – but with murmured words in between.

"So good," he says. "So…lovely, I…Arthur, I would…beneath your throne. Just for this. For…to please you, my… _éce héofodbeorht…mín draca…_ "

Arthur suffers a moment of nerves when Merlin lapses into that strange language, but there's just no mistaking the tone. It's the way he speaks to his horses when no one can hear: no sorcery, but endearment, being praised for nothing more than his given form, for being there, warm and sweet and alive.

It fills him with such longing, confounds his senses. The instinct to clench is warring with that to relax, the urge to thrust – to frot his cock against the mattress – warring with his need not to lose contact with Merlin's tongue. Any lingering shock at being part of such an act – at knowing deep down that he's desired this very thing since Merlin first mentioned it in jest – gives way to rich tingles of sensation and a restless ache for…something. Anything. _More._

Before he knows it he's groaning as much aloud, panting Merlin's name.

Then Merlin stops licking and spears Arthur with his tongue, and it's all he can do to keep from shaking apart.

Merlin shies away from outright buggery – says Arthur won't thank him for it when he's in the saddle next day, murmurs that he's been too well-fucked to do it justice, at any rate – but he rubs his cock all along the trail his tongue's mapped out, mashes the spongy tip of it against Arthur's hole and rubs it all around in the mess of drool he's left behind. 

It's on two of Merlin's greased, be-ringed fingers that Arthur finally finds a reason for his ache, the answer to an unnameable yearning – validation for drunken fumbles with himself, always aborted to guilt and frustration, because he's been taught dozens of openings with a long sword and where to strike a man in order to wind him versus where to strike in order to kill, but never how to find and accept this sort of pleasure.

There's a spot inside him that feels, at first, like it isn’t meant to be touched, then sends such a fire through him that he wonders at the purpose of it, if not to drive men mad with lust. 

"Yes," he gasps, flinging his arms out, grabbing at the pillows, the bedposts – anything he can use for purchase in order to thrust back against such a welcome intrusion. "Yes, that's…oh _hnngh._ "

Merlin's panting as well by now, practically whining. Arthur feels a knee wedged tight to his taint as Merlin straddles the back of one thigh – a hot mash of balls and cock – then the full weight of him as he crouches low, draping himself over Arthur's back. He pumps his fingers in and out, saying, "How much? How much will you let me give you, my lord…because I will. Fuck, Arthur, I… By the Goddess, I will give it all. _All._ Gladly." 

This time, Arthur's climax takes him by the throat as well as the groin. It's in his mind, singing through his entire frame, burning out whatever shame is left. A second victory, not at all earned, but squeezed out nonetheless, leaving him limp and quaking in its aftermath.

He passes out to Merlin's soothing burble, the sensation of blankets being tucked round him and fingers gently combing his hair.

* * *

Arthur wakes to the scents of ash soap and strong cheese. He blinks, rolls over, and starts to call out – demanding Morris explain just what he thinks he's up to – when he simultaneously runs out of mattress and catches sight of a young boy scrubbing the floor.

The previous evening comes back to him in a rush. He clutches the blankets to his chest, scrambling not to fall off the bed.

"You there!" At the boy's wide-eyed alarm, he gentles his voice. "Where's Merlin?" 

The child scowls at him. "She was called away. There's been another attack on Ealdor."

"Attack?" Arthur sits up. "By whom? Is he…I mean – "

"There's food for your journey," the boy cuts in, pointing at the bench by the door. The basin and cloth have been cleared away. There's a tray with a tankard, a slab of cheese, and a wheel of brown bread peeping out of a cloth. "Merlin said you'd be hungry. Said to be sure and take it with you if you didn’t want it now."

"I…thank you." When the boy shows no sign of retreat or further explanation, Arthur says, "Do you have a name, child?"

"Mordred."

"Well, Mordred, if you give me a few minutes' peace I will be out of your hair, but first… Please, tell me what's happened. Where is Ealdor? I'd like to help, if I can."

"Then go away."

"What?" Arthur's not sure he's heard correctly until the child straightens up, chucking brush and soap into a bucket and levelling Arthur with an unnerving stare. 

"Take what was given you and go, Son of the Dragon. Emrys does not need your help, and Merlin was meant for better things."

With that the boy hoists the bucket, turns, and leaves, slamming the door behind him.

Arthur doesn't linger – doesn’t dare. He dresses in a daze, tucking the precious memory of the night before away beneath his clothes. He downs what he assumes to be ale, then spits a good third of it back into the tankard when he discovers it's some sort of herbal tonic instead.

"I trust you haven't poisoned me," he mutters as he pulls on his boots. But in his heart he feels, he _knows,_ that Merlin wouldn't harm him, not after what they've shared.

He gathers the bundle of food, pauses before the door only long enough to butt his head against it and whisper a farewell. He tells himself that he can always make up some other excuse to return, that Merlin knows how to find him if he wishes… 

Not that it would be safe for him to do so. If Arthur were any sort of man at all, he knows he should pray that Merlin might never set foot in Camelot.

Down in the tavern proper, a few men are sleeping off the night's revelry. There's a surly old man behind the bar who takes no notice of Arthur, and the strange child is nowhere to be seen. He collects Hengroen from the stable and stashes the food in his saddlebag. As soon as Arthur mounts, the stallion takes off walking without any urging, heading out of the stable yard.

In front of the Spangled Goat, however, Hengroen balks, then veers north. Arthur has to physically turn him, using both reins and seat, to get him onto the westward path.

"What's the matter, boy? Camelot's this way."

The horse can't answer him, of course, but Arthur thinks he knows. There's some part of him that doesn’t want to go back – that wishes he were free to choose a different fate – and Hengroen can sense it. Arthur closes his eyes for a moment, lifting his face to the sun, then nudges Hengroen into a trot. He must shove such unworthy thoughts deep down, deeper even than his bodily desires and his doubts about his father's views

He collects his cloak and mail from the cave where he'd stashed them, but doesn't stop to eat until he's past the ridge, well into Camelot lands. It's only then, beside a lively stream, that Arthur finds what Merlin has hidden inside the loaf of bread: the bulging silk purse, wrapped round with wilting sprigs of herbs and wildflowers. 

He doesn't need to look to know what's inside, doesn't need to count. Every copper and silver he'd stuffed down Merlin's bodice, every coin he'd offered for her affections – for _his_ body and bed.

"Minx," he says softly, unwinding the greenery and crushing it to his face. "Wretch. _Merlin._ " 

Arthur inhales deeply, searching for some hint of the man in the mingled scents, but already the memory is fading. He can't be sure. Before he leaves, he tosses the greenery into the stream. The money he discreetly gives away, detouring back through farms and villages, pretending he seeks information or a moment's shade, a cup of ale, or fresh water for his horse.

* * *

It's well after dark by the time he reaches the castle. Despite the orders of the guards on watch, he stops by his chambers first. He dismisses Morris to fetch him some supper, then locks the empty purse up in the chest where he keeps his valuables.

He's expecting a tongue-lashing for not returning with his men – he'd told them some lie about a pilgrimage to the Castle of the Ancient Kings, a vow he'd made to God and his ancestors to keep vigil there in return for his first victory.

Instead he finds his father in good humour, entertaining his courtiers and favoured knights. Cador is there, red-faced and puffed up with drink. His eyes meet Arthur's in a stubborn challenge for a brief moment, then he turns away, resuming his conversation with Bors.

"My pious son!" Uther exclaims, rising and clapping Arthur on the shoulder. "You have done well. Very well, indeed."

He beckons a servant over to fill a fresh goblet, makes a show of having everyone toast their prince and his triumph over worshippers of the Old Religion. After, however, he leans in, gripping the back of Arthur's neck and giving him a rough shake. 

"Such lies do not become you, Arthur. Young Owain thought to check on you, escort you back. He and Sir Leon searched the whole damn castle, by their telling. They were quite distressed when you were nowhere to be found."

"I – " Arthur begins, but his father cuts him off with another shake. Then, to Arthur's surprise, he gives a hearty chuckle and lets him go, patting his shoulder again.

"You are not the first man to seek release after battle, nor will you be the last. Next time you go haring off after a bit of skirt, take some of the men with you, hm? There are whores out there who'll sing pretty while sitting on your cock, then slit your throat while you sleep." Uther takes a sip from his goblet, watching Arthur over the rim. "Understood?"

"Yes, Father." Arthur chokes down a sip of wine. Then another. 

"Good." Uther dismisses him with a nod. "Now go, apologise to Leon and Owain. Drink to your victory. Tomorrow it's back to the training ground." 

"Yes, Father."

Arthur gets blind drunk with the men, then sicks most of it up into his chamber pot. He falls asleep clutching his pillows, thinking they are a poor substitute for his memories.

* * *


	2. Son of the Dove

**Four Years Later**

Arthur's eye wanders over ornate combs, leather goods, jewellery, and colourful scarves and alights on a small selection of daggers, displayed on a red cloth. He picks up the daintiest of them and sights along its blade, then removes a glove, testing the handle's grip in his bare palm.

"How much?"

At a nod from Sir Leon, the merchantwoman sidles near. "A pittance, my lord, for one such as yourself. But, if I may…?" She holds a hand out for the dagger and Arthur gives it to her, puzzled. Surely she doesn’t mean to refuse to sell it to him?

She examines the dagger, casting him a sidelong smile. "You seek a gift for a lady, then?" 

Beside him, Ethan and Owain snigger. Arthur glares at them, announcing, "It's no secret that it's the Lady Morgana's birthday next week."

"Ah, well!" The woman drops the dagger back onto the cloth and claps her hands together, bowing. "That would never do for the king's ward. Come, my lord. In my tent I have much finer things – blades so fine they sing in a breeze, gems worthy of a queen."

Arthur knows it's likely just a gimmick to get him to spend more, but he decides to play along. After all, he'd been expecting to waste the better part of his afternoon combing the market for a suitable gift; this merchant, with her jumble of exotic trinkets, promises to save him some time.

"No, stop! Wait!"

The cry comes just as Arthur is rounding the edge of the stall. There's a commotion in the street, people swearing as they are pushed aside.

"I assure you, m'lord, you really don't want to do that."

Arthur doesn't recognise the voice, not at first, but when he finally catches sight of its owner, there's no mistaking the face.

With his hair cropped close to his head and dressed as a peasant boy, Merlin looks even younger than he had when Arthur had first met him, gangling and pink-cheeked, ears sticking out a mile. But his eyes are just as bold, his mouth just as sinful. He's panting under the weight of his pack, hands resting on his knees.

"Oh?" Arthur lifts an eyebrow, trembling inside at seeing Merlin again – not quite believing that he _is_ , despite his certainty – but all too aware of where they are and who's watching. He pulls his shoulders back, juts his chin. "And why not? Do you offer something more worthy of the Lady Morgana?"

He can hear chuckles from his companions. A nervous titter runs through the crowd. The other townsfolk around Merlin edge away, leaving him stranded beside a barrow of cabbages. He catches his breath and straightens up, shaking his head. 

"No sire."

Arthur can't help stepping closer, does so quite without thinking – eyes fixed on Merlin's – until one more step would allow him to reach out and touch…

Blindly, Arthur grabs up a cabbage from the cart, holds it aloft. "One of these, perhaps?" He turns a smile on the crowd, giving them permission to laugh. "Rather unwieldy for a pendant, but I daresay our smiths could forge a chain to hold it. However – " Arthur tosses the cabbage back onto the pile, locking eyes with Merlin once more. " – in time I fear a lady might begin to find the scent…disagreeable."

Merlin's eyes are blazing now with some strong emotion. He leans in, hands clenching around his pack straps. " _Please_ , sire, she's not who she seems. I fear nothing good will come of – "

"Pay him no mind, my lord!" The merchantwoman calls out. She makes her way to Arthur's side and contemplates Merlin with hands on hips. "Pah! Some village is missing their simpleton, no doubt." This brings another wave of laughter from the crowd. She plucks at Arthur's sleeve, gesturing back towards her tent. "Please, come…step inside and we can conduct our business without further interruption. Your men, too, if it pleases the idiot. Even he must agree that one woman is no match for four knights."

"Depends on the woman," Merlin says hotly, gaining a few cheers from the onlookers.

Two guards come trotting over, drawn by the commotion. "Is this boy causing trouble, sire? Shall we arrest him?"

Seeing the genuine panic in Merlin's eyes, Arthur is quick to wave them off. "No, no. Just a misunderstanding." He claps Merlin on the shoulder, trying to ignore the thrill of it. There's a clamour in his mind, an itch in his limbs; he longs to pull Merlin close, to hold him and bid him welcome. "Isn't that right, my wayward friend?"

"But she's not… I swear, in truth I don't know who she is, but she's not a merchant! And she means you harm."

"On second thought – " Arthur gestures to the guards. "He's not under arrest, but I'd like a word with him when I've finished. Take him directly to Gaius, understood? Tell him the boy may be suffering from…heat exhaustion. Then remain outside the door."

He gives Merlin a pointed look, hoping to god that he understands he mustn't work any magic. "I'm sorry," he whispers, "but those are serious allegations, offered without proof. I can't let you disrupt honest trade."

Each of the guards takes an arm, steering him off in the direction of the castle. Merlin throws Arthur a desperate look over his shoulder, calling out, "Ask her why she has no mirrors at her stall then! Go on, ask her. For all they ask for opinions, women like to judge for themselves. Any merchant knows that!"

"What?" Arthur looks amongst his men, gets only shrugs and blank expressions, but there's a murmur of assent from the crowd. 

"The lad's right, m'lord," a woman says. A man calls out, "Aye, me wife – "

"Arthur, look out!" Merlin shouts, wrenching free of the guards' grasp and charging towards him.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Arthur sees the merchantwoman lunging for the pile of daggers. Leon, who's closest, darts in, grabbing her around the waist and hauling her back – but not before she manages to snag one, as Arthur spots something glittering in her hand.

One moment he's shouting for everyone to get back; the next he's on the ground, gasping for air beneath Merlin's weight, and staring up at a stunned-looking farmer. There's a gasp from the crowd as the man reaches into the barrow and holds up a cabbage – cleaved near in two, a dagger handle protruding from it. Arthur recognises it as the very one he'd been thinking of buying for Morgana.

* * *

It's one of Arthur's worst nightmares come true, witnessing Merlin dragged before his father in the council chamber and roughly questioned. He paces between the columns, trading aggrieved looks with Morgana until he can bear listening no more.

"What does it matter how he knew, Father?" he says, pausing beside Uther's chair. "Perhaps he saw her reflection in a puddle. And he couldn’t have helped her escape, as he was too busy saving my life!"

"Yours too," Morgana adds, reaching over to pat Uther's arm. She nods towards the door. Gaius has just entered, wringing his hands and looking distinctly ill at ease. "Ask Gaius what was found in the tent."

Uther's gaze slides over Arthur, sparing an eyebrow for his outburst, and settles on the royal physician. "Well?"

Gaius comes forward, until he's standing abreast of Merlin and the guards. "I haven't had time to thoroughly examine all the confiscated items, but… She had Dynasty Stones, sire. I found several worked into a necklace, and another in a ring. There may be more."

"Dynasty Stones?" Uther frowns. 

"Very rare, sire, and insidious. Activated by blood magic, and when controlled by someone powerful enough…" He swallows, shuffling forward another step, leaning in. "They are said to inflict a creeping madness, to the point of seeking death. And not just on the victim, but their kin as well – any blood relation. Hence the name."

Arthur watches the colour drain from his father's face. He clutches the armrests, staring at Gaius. "Good lord, so if Arthur had…"

"Yes, I'm afraid so."

"But who would – " Uther breaks off, muttering something under his breath. He and Gaius share a long, inscrutable look that sets Arthur's teeth on edge.

"Father?" Arthur says, then Morgana chines in with, "What is it?" 

Uther glances at each of them briefly, but makes no reply. Instead, he dismisses the guards and motions Merlin nearer.

"Is it as my son says?" He still sounds impatient, but his tone is much gentler than before. "Did you see her true face?"

"Yes, my lord. Though I caught her reflection in a spoon, not a puddle. Only a brief glimpse, enough to tell that one was old while the other young."

"And you did not think to report this to the guard immediately?"

"I… " Merlin blinks, brow furrowing. He glances at Arthur, then down at the floor. "This was not in Camelot, my lord, but Engerd. At the Spangled Goat, where I work – or used to."

"But that's in Cenred's kingdom!"

Merlin nods, fidgeting with the hem of his tunic. There's something off about his hands, Arthur thinks, and then it hits him – no rings. No adornments of any kind. Just a ratty neck scarf.

"Such glamours are not…forgive me, sire, but they are neither illegal nor uncommon in our taverns. I thought little of it at the time."

Uther makes a noise of disgust and Merlin sways back on his heels, as if he's been struck. For a moment his hands still, clenched white-knuckled before him, and Arthur forgets to breathe.

Then Merlin takes a breath, so Arthur does too, watching his hands unclench and resume their restless plucking.

"But later," he says, "I overheard her and her companion discussing the throne of Camelot. She was re-assuring him, claiming knowledge of some misfortune that would soon strike at its heart." Merlin looks up suddenly, straight at Arthur, and there is such anguish in it Arthur feels a lump forming in his own throat.

"So I…as soon as I could get away, I followed her. As best I could without a horse. I'm sorry it took me so long."

Arthur opens his mouth to reply, but realises he hasn't a clue what to say, what words might convey half of what he's feeling without drawing suspicion. Morgana's already looking at him askance.

Fortunately, Gaius steps in, placing a fatherly hand on Merlin's shoulder. "Nonsense, dear boy. I'd say you arrived just in time."

"Do you mean to say," Uther says, rising to his feet, "that you left your work and came all this way on foot to warn us of this threat? All on your own?"

Merlin nods warily, finally tearing his gaze from Arthur. "Well, my mother and a friend, they saw me to the border, but no one sent me, if that’s what you mean. I could not bear the thought of anyone suffering such a fate, let alone…" 

He twines his hands together, blushing to the tips of his ears. "Your son, my lord. Where I come from, the people have no such champion – most feel abandoned by our king – but we hear the tales. That the golden dragon stands for justice, now, for protection from hunger and the lawlessness that plagues our lands."

"How extraordinary," Morgana says. Arthur doesn't like the shrewd way she's watching Merlin now, likes even less the eyebrow and slight smirk she aims his way.

"Indeed." There's a note of amusement in Uther's voice. He glances over. "It seems you have an admirer, my son. For which we all must be grateful. How shall such a debt be repaid?"

"No, please," Merlin, says hastily, going even redder. "I don’t want paying. I only did what I thought right."

"If not money, then what?" Uther regards Merlin curiously. "I’d say this merits something quite special." 

"Really, there's no need."

"There must be something, surely?" Morgana says, rising as well, and joining Gaius at Merlin's side. "We wouldn't dream of you going away empty-handed, would we, Arthur?"

"I…" Arthur says, then pauses, forced to clear his throat. "Merlin, I – "

"Might I have leave to stay and seek work here in Camelot?" Merlin blurts out. "Just…I'm afraid I've burnt my bridges at the Spangled Goat. By running off, I mean."

"What?" Arthur winces internally at the screechy panic in his voice. "No," he adds, more forcefully. "Absolutely not." 

The first few months after his return had been torture, his night-time fantasies plagued by jealousy and doubt, but over the years he's disciplined himself to the point of not thinking about the other men Merlin must lie with or, when his discipline fails, thinking of them only as faceless, unworthy hordes whose coin nevertheless keeps him safe and well looked after.

"Arthur!" Uther and Morgana speak almost in unison, the former looking mildly shocked, while Morgana glares at him outright. But worse than either of these is the way Merlin's looking at him. It's beyond outrage or disappointment – more of a blank, puzzled sadness, like Arthur's speaking in a foreign tongue.

"I only meant," Arthur says, holding out a hand, "that…whatever his work was in Engerd – general skivvy by the looks of it – surely we might find him something better? Something not, uh, tavern-based?"

Everyone continues staring at him, then Merlin's face comes to life, eyes bright and lips curving into a knowing smile.

"I'm also skilled with herb lore, sire. My mother is the best healer in our village. She also taught me to read and write, and to sew, and – "

Uther claps his hands together. "That's settled then. You shall have a position in the royal household. You will assist Gaius with his duties as he requires it…and, seeing as he's driven his latest to gambling and drink, you shall be Arthur's new manservant!"

Arthur pinches his brow, using it as an excuse to hide his face from Morgana's gleeful scrutiny. He's caught somewhere between elation and a deep sense of foreboding. "With respect, Father, I think we should ask Merlin – "

"I accept." Merlin bobs his head, beaming, managing to turn the beginnings of a curtsey into an awkward bow. "Thank you, your highness. I am grateful for the opportunity to serve."

* * *

Arthur's desperate for a moment alone with Merlin, a growing army of questions and the desire to sincerely thank him warring with the need to simply touch him again – to take his hand, reassuring himself at skin level that this is no dream – but it is not to be.

Uther dismisses Merlin but bids Arthur stay, summoning Sir Leon to join them and go over their testimony once more with Gaius present. 

"Oh, I… Er, where should I – " Merlin begins, and before Arthur can step in Morgana is there with her warmest smile. 

She offers to acquaint him with the castle and her maid, saying, "Gwen's a treasure – even Arthur can’t find a harsh word for her. She'll be happy to introduce you round to the other servants and show you what's what."

Arthur gives a stiff nod to Merlin's questioning look, then watches in mute frustration as Morgana escorts him out, their heads already bent towards one another in earnest conversation. 

After repeating their account – and much muttering between Gaius and Uther – he and Leon are sent back out to join the search for the vanished sorceress.

"Question the other merchants," Uther says. "The watchman, the innkeepers. Find out all you can, but take care. If she is found, let the guards take her and bind her in iron. You are not to go near her yourself, Arthur, is that understood?"

"Yes, Father."

The afternoon drags on, much of their questioning to no avail. They do manage to locate the horse and cart the sorceress rode in on; however, there's nothing unusual about either, save for the fact that she'd sold them on immediately after arriving in Camelot. 

She'd told the farmer who bought them that she was newly widowed and needed the money to pay for her stall and find lodgings within the city. The actuary, however, claims the stall tax had been paid three days prior to her arrival, brought by messenger, and she's not been seen in any of the inns. 

Arthur then orders a search for the messenger, but he, too, seems to fit no single description and might as well have vanished into thin air, same as his mistress.

The sun sinks low in the sky. Merchants begin to pack up their wares. When Arthur spies the city's torches being lit, he hands command of the search over to the night patrol and leads his men back to the castle.

"So all we know, sire," Leon says as they rack their weapons, "is that she speaks with a forked tongue, her face is not her own, she can become as the wind, and she did not leave on the horse she rode in on."

"That appears to be the sum of it." Arthur sighs then, noting Leon's pinched face and furrowed brow, claps him on the shoulder. "There is nothing more you could have done. None of us are trained to face such a threat."

Leon glances over, his frustration writ plain in his eyes. They do not speak of it often, as it comes dangerously close to treason, but Arthur knows that Leon shares his growing opinion that they might fare better against magical threats if they were allowed some knowledge of them.

As there are others about, Leon only gives a curt nod. "I suppose we must be grateful to the boy," he says. "Brave little thing."

"What? Oh, yes. Merlin." Arthur feels his cheeks heat at saying the name. He frowns to compensate, then turns away, stripping off his gloves and tucking them into his belt. "I will report our findings to my father. You go get some food in your belly, get some rest. Tomorrow we will focus on close combat drills. I'd like you to start showing the younger knights what you've taught me of grappling." 

"Certainly, sire." Leon's voice brightens. "It would be my pleasure."

* * *

On his way to the council chamber, Arthur waylays a guardsman. 

"There's a new man about the castle, a servant, name of Merlin. Have him found. Tell him I want my supper brought to my room."

"Yes, sire."

"Merlin?" A passing maid pauses, dropping pink-cheeked into a deep curtsey. "Beg pardon, my lord, but he's already waiting for you. I…I helped him carry the water for your bath."

Arthur's never been more impatient to make his report and escape, but his father pours him a goblet of wine with his own hand. He bids him sit and recount every last detail, frequently interrupting with rants about the evils of sorcery and demanding increased levels of vigilance, harsher punishments for those suspected of having dealings with magic-users.

By the time Arthur is dismissed, his stomach is a knot of cold dread. He hastens back to his own chambers and bolts the door behind him. 

"Merlin?" Arthur spots him crouched low before the hearth, blowing and uselessly flapping his hands at the embers. He strides over. "What on earth do you think you're doing?"

"What does it look like, you big lump?" Merlin peers up at him, face red and smeared with soot. "Trying to get this stupid fire going again without breaking the law."

"No, not – " Arthur snorts. He hauls Merlin to his feet, taking firm hold of his shoulders and giving him a shake. "What on earth do you think you're doing accepting a position _here_ , in the castle?"

Merlin arches an eyebrow. "Fulfilling my vow."

"What vow?"

"To the Triple Goddess, and to you." 

"Are you mad? It's not safe for you here. If anyone finds out about your magic, you'll be killed, and I…" 

Arthur trails off, swallowing words he feels too foolish saying aloud. Instead he pulls Merlin into an embrace, cradling the back of his head, burying his face in his neck. He smells of smoke and wildflowers.

"Are you well?" he murmurs. "You look well. Apart from the soot, obviously. And…" He pulls back, scuffing his fingers through the shortened hair, then tugging at the ratty neck scarf. "What have you done to your pretty curls, hm? Why are you dressed like…well, not like yourself?"

He wants to say the clothes look all wrong, but they don't, not exactly. It's just that he's not used to seeing Merlin like this; in Arthur's fantasies Merlin appears in his bodice and skirts or, more often, nothing at all.

Merlin shrugs, eyes bright, and gives Arthur a squeeze. "You said there were none like me in Camelot, so I thought it safer to come like this. And I was right. Your physician, he knows a great deal of magic. He would have recognised my choker for what it was."

"He would not have betrayed you, I think, not once he knew your role in this."

"Perhaps not, but…" Merlin shrugs again, eyes darting towards the door. Then he worms a hand up between them, rubbing Arthur's chest. Even through the layers of mail and cloth, Arthur fancies he can feel the warmth of it, wonders at how such a simple touch can both make his breath catch and calm his nerves.

"But?"

After a moment, Merlin slides his hand up, stroking Arthur's throat, swiping a thumb along his jaw and over his lips. He moistens his own, fixing Arthur with a bold look.

"Forgive me, m'lord, but I was under the impression that it's not just my magic your people would want to repay with a beheading."

"That's none of their business," Arthur says fiercely. " _This,_ you – " He captures Merlin's hand and kisses it, then angles his head in for the real thing. He pauses at the last instant, unsure of his right, but Merlin sways into it. He fits his mouth to Arthur's, greedily drawing the kisses from his lips, just as eager as he'd been the first time.

And it feels just as right, Merlin in his arms. The strength and the beauty of him, the wild scent and sweet taste, the hidden power that courses through his veins. 

Arthur knows his father would never understand, nor approve, but can't believe that he'd really begrudge him some small measure of private happiness. And he knows now that, even in Camelot, there are those men who quietly seek one another out for mutual comfort – brothers-in-arms, longtime helpmeets or neighbours – with no inherent shame in it save the lies they must tell. 

"Lie with me?" Arthur says as they break apart. He presses his forehead to Merlin's, as if it might salve the heat building under his skin. "Tomorrow, I promise, we will find you somewhere safe to go, but tonight – "

"Go?"

Arthur kisses him again, murmuring, "Vow or no, surely you don't wish to stay in the castle? Not like this, hiding who you really are, treated like a…a common dogsbody."

"No, but I will, if it means I might stay by your side." Merlin takes Arthur's face in his hands, gently pushes him back until they can look one another in the eyes.

"Arthur, I am not ashamed to serve you. Nor to love you, with all that I am, if that is what you still desire. Even if it's in secret, even if… I expect you are promised? Betrothed?"

"No," Arthur says. "There's no one."

The truth is that, while he has paid whores for the pleasure of sharing a bed with something warmer than his pillows, he has lain with none. Not since that night with Merlin. He's gotten good at picking the ones who will not mind a night's peace, content to simply hold him and stroke his brow until he falls asleep. He'd been hoping that, if he's forced to marry, he might come to some similar arrangement. 

"There's _been_ no one," he admits, thinking that, for all Merlin's done for him, all he's sacrificed to be here, he deserves this truth. "Not since you."

Merlin stares at him, stares until Arthur is squirming inside. Then he drops his hands and takes a step back, shaking his head.

"Ruined you for other men, is that it? Or were you just too proud to ask?"

"What?" It takes Arthur a moment to catch up to the soft look in Merlin's eyes, to the fact that he's smiling. "Merlin…"

"Or," Merlin goes on, grinning now, looking Arthur up and down with his hands on his hips, "you _did_ ask, but they turned you down. Were worried you might have them beheaded if they weren't up to scratch, and let's face it, you are quite the handful. Or faceful, as I recall."

"Why, you cheeky little – " Arthur makes a grab for Merlin but he darts out of reach, putting the bathing tub between them. He makes an exaggerated curtsey, then starts stripping off his clothes.

"Come, sire, if it's my tongue you're after – " He dips a hand in the water and pulls a face, muttering something Arthur's sure is a spell. " – let's get you washed first. I don't mind an honest working man's musk, but a prince who sits around on his fat arse all day, looking impossibly noble – "

"I do no such thing!" Arthur says, laughing despite himself as he stalks towards the tub. Merlin rids himself of his last sock and steps in, and Arthur's cock stirs at the sight. He'd thought his memories just, his fantasies rich enough to satisfy, but they are nothing compared to what he has before him. All the details he'd missed, or misremembered over time… Not the least of which is the extent of Merlin's impudence.

"Gods, Merlin, you really don't get it, do you. You cannot speak to me like that if we're to make this work. You cannot use _my_ bath, nor run around heating bathwater with – 

"Why ever not?" Merlin crouches low, then sinks into the water with a hum of contentment. He grins up at Arthur, head lolling against the rim of the tub. "I'm from Essetir. Heathens and simpletons, that's what your lot think of us, don’t they? Or tell them I'm in training to become your fool. I'm quite bendy, as you know, and decent at conjuring butterflies."

"Don't you dare." It comes out harsher than Arthur intends, as he's suddenly struck by a vision of Merlin's head positioned just like this, but on the chopping block.

Merlin's smile fades as he studies Arthur's face. "No butterflies, then. I promise." He lifts an arm from beneath the water and reaches out, finding Arthur's knee. "I will be careful, Arthur. It may take me some time to get used to, but I swear – so long as I am in Camelot, so long as Uther's laws stand, I will use my magic only as you see fit."

"I…thank you." Arthur nods, then turns away to undress, troubled by the weight of such words. He's not sure he's ready for such a responsibility, not sure he's worthy of it. But if Merlin trusts him…

There's a splash from behind him, an appreciative murmur. Heat floods Arthur's face as he realises that Merlin is watching him strip as a man might his mistress – or a whore. His fingers fumble on his laces; he nearly tears his tunic getting it off over his head.

Merlin actually whistles at Arthur when he's down to his smalls. "Now there's a sight for sore eyes. Hurry up and get in."

Arthur glares over his shoulder. "Merlin."

"Hurry up and get in…my lord?"

"It'll have to do," Arthur mutters to himself, well aware that, what with the way his cock's jutting out proud as a stallion's, any pretence at disapproval will ring false as soon as he turns around. 

"Are you sure we'll both fit?" 

"Oh yes." 

There's more splashing. Arthur turns to find Merlin sitting back against the edge of the tub, arms draped along the rim, the twin mounds of his knees poking out of the water. As Arthur approaches, they part, spreading wide.

"So long as you don’t mind being between my legs?"

Arthur snorts and rolls his eyes, but he can't help sighing at how good it feels when he steps into the warm water. Nor, after he lowers himself fully into the tub, at the sensation of another body at his back – of being enfolded in a snug embrace, lips skimming his shoulder, a hand sliding down to cup his balls and squeeze his cock while Merlin's swells against his backside. It goes from being a ticklish, slippery thing to a blunt presence as Arthur rocks his hips, pushing his cock into Merlin's grip

"I want…"

"Yes," Merlin says, kissing his neck. "Anything."

They don't make it out of the bath. Merlin takes Arthur to the edge with his hand, just like Arthur used to as a boy, squeezing and tugging at himself until the funny almost-needing-to-piss feeling intensified into something sharp and new.

But now Arthur's not worried about what comes next, and Merlin doesn't stop – doesn’t whip his hand away in fear of a nursemaid, or the faceless creature named sin.

Now, Merlin does what Arthur had never quite dared back then. He slides his other hand down, briefly gripping Arthur's thigh before extending a fingertip down behind his balls. Rubbing tight little circles there, round and round his clench with added pressure until Arthur feels it push in. Not very far, just enough to make him buck and squirm.

"You're so warm…just here," Merlin whispers, wiggling his fingertip. It's as if he's trying to stroke Arthur from the inside. "So strong. Forgive me, but whenever they asked… Not often, but when they did, I'd try and pretend it was you. But it never… They weren't worthy, Arthur. They weren't – "

"Hush," Arthur grits out, exhaling, focussing everything on relaxing around Merlin's finger even as he fucks harder into his hand. He turns his neck as far as it will go, whips a hand up out of the water to clutch at Merlin's head. "Here now," he murmurs, snapping his hips forward, screwing his arse back. "Kiss me. _Kiss_ me, you bloody minx."

He never had this back then either. Never came so hard into cooling bathwater and had the urge, not to run away, but to luxuriate in it. Never had anyone to reach back for, to get on his knees for and shuffle around for. Arthur hauls Merlin onto his lap, slopping water all over the floor.

"Show me," he demands, letting go of one hip to fist Merlin's cock. "Show me how to touch you. Not how you _let_ them, but how you want it, Merlin, how you like – "

Muttering, Merlin pitches forward, catching Arthur up in a messy kiss and frantically humping into his fist. 

His tongue's trapped in Arthur's mouth when he comes. He keens into his throat, sucking and blowing through his nose as if he's forgot how to breathe. His ribcage shudders under Arthur's soothing hand.

"Take it…" Merlin pants, when he finally tears his mouth away. He butts his head against Arthur's shoulder, his limbs going lax. "I take it back."

"Hm?" Arthur lets go of Merlin's spent prick and gathers him close. "What's that?"

"Secrets, yes, but not sharing – never sharing you, _mín draca, mín efengemæcca_."

Again, Arthur finds he does not need to know the words to understand the meaning behind them. There's a feral, possessive heat there that should probably offend him, given his station, but only serves to make his heart swell. Yes, he belongs to Camelot, and he will give its people everything he has to give, but…

"I am glad to hear it," he whispers, stroking Merlin's hair, gently rocking him. He finds it much easier to say the words when he's touching and not looking. "I have no wish to be shared. Not in this."

* * *

They make it to the bed for the next round, Merlin still wet from the bath, scrambling back with legs parted wide, then lifted into the air, urging Arthur on. Arthur abandons any thoughts of taking it slowly, follows Merlin's demands and fucks him into the mattress hard and steady, kissing nearly the whole while except when they are too close to the finish and there's not enough air.

Then, waking in the grey light just before dawn, Arthur instinctively stretches, rolling into the warmth at his back and hitching a knee up, seeking as much contact as possible. He's not thinking about what he's doing – only that it feels nice, that his limbs are pleasantly sore and his cock is morning-heavy and there's something slick and soft poking between his buttocks, making everything all tingly.

So he keeps burrowing back, rocking his hips, until the soft thing grows hard and Merlin comes fully awake with a shiver of limbs and a wondering moan.

"Arthur?"

Arthur gropes for one of his hands and pulls it around, kissing the knuckles. "Miss your rings," he murmurs. "Hands seem naked."

Merlin gives a sleepy chuckle, the vibration of it pulsing his belly and cock. Straining forward for a moment, Arthur grabs the little jar of sweet oil they'd used earlier and tucks it into Merlin's hand.

Merlin kisses his neck – makes him shiver with hints of tongue, the drag of barely-there stubble – and his shoulders, then pulls away, taking the warmth with him, leaving Arthur wide awake and staring at the windows opposite. The sun's not up yet, but it's coming.

"Be light soon," Merlin says softly. Arthur can hear the slick sounds of him oiling his cock, feels the rise of the mattress as he rolls away and the dip when he returns. Feels two oiled fingers sliding between his buttocks, stroking, rubbing across his hole. "When do princes rise?"

"There's time," Arthur says, closing his eyes. He hitches his knee up higher and rocks into the touch, grunting when Merlin finally pushes a finger in. 

Merlin finds that tender spot, then retreats from it, rubbing along the channel below, playing with the tight ring of muscle, letting it grasp his finger then petting and tugging at it until it loosens up, until, when Arthur fully relaxes, he can actually feel the sensation of cooler air meeting his body's inner heat. 

And it's nice, this, being massaged down there, slowly prised open, but Arthur wants more.

"Merlin…"

"Shh." Arthur can hear the smile in his voice. "You said we had time, sire. Can't send you off with a sore bottom."

Arthur huffs. "I'm cold."

"Ah. Well then. Allow me."

The fingers disappear, but a moment later the warmth is back, Merlin curling close behind him, brushing kisses between his shoulder blades. Arthur's just getting ready to protest that he never meant for Merlin to stop when the fingers return – at his hip now, then lower. Cupping, kneading the flesh, spreading it to one side, making way for Merlin's cock to rut in the channel and catch on his hole. Lovely, slippery bluntness. Arthur holds his breath as it slides away, then catches again. 

Slides away. Catches.

Arthur pushes back against it, and this time Merlin keeps it there with his hand. He rubs the tip back and forth across Arthur's hole, nudging in, testing; just as Arthur exhales, he finally pushes in with a breathy moan. 

They both still for a moment, their strained breathing loud in the quiet room. Then Arthur rolls further onto his belly, clutching at Merlin's thigh, and helps him sink all the way in, grunting at the rough slide, the perfect fullness of it.

Merlin nuzzles his earlobe, nips at it as he grinds his hips in a slow circle that has Arthur grabbing for his own cock – anything to take the edge off the sparking pressure, the heat lodged deep inside him.

"Sun's coming up," Merlin whispers.

"Shut up."

Merlin hums, rocking his hips, beginning to thrust. "Sun's – _ah_ – definitely, m'lord. Nearly dawn. Shall I make it quick?"

"Don't you dare." Arthur glares over his shoulder then, seeing Merlin's rumpled hair and blissful smile – seeing those fine, bright eyes watching him with amused fondness – says, "Unless you're all talk, you teasing wretch. What, after all the 'unworthy' arses you claim to have tupped, you can't manage but a few moments in mine?"

Merlin shoves in deep and holds there, kissing Arthur's ear. "You do have the nicest one in five kingdoms, sire. But I'll do my best."

Arthur barks out a laugh, saying, "See that you do, or I'll have you in the stocks for fraud," and buries his face in the pillows. 

He thinks he's had the last word. He's just getting into the rhythm of Merlin's movements, daring to clench a little on the backslide, making it feel as if Merlin's cock's still swelling inside him – like he's stuffed too full and Merlin's trying to drag it out of him – when Merlin reaches around, fingers scrabbling over Arthur's belly and wrist until they find his hand where it's curled round his cock. He covers Arthur's hand with his own, smears a thumb over his slit, and picks up the pace, swivelling and snapping his hips.

"Make it a spanking," he pants, squeezing Arthur's hand, urging it up and down his thickening shaft, "by your hand and I – _ooh,_ yes that's it – I'll swear I'm a virgin."

Arthur groans into the pillow, picturing it. He hears the fleshy sounds of Merlin driving into him and imagines it's his hands on Merlin's pert little rump. Imagines Merlin turned over his bare lap, their cocks rubbing together with every smack, one for every lie – every impertinent word, too – and gods willing Merlin would keep sassing him until they were both desperate to finish. Arthur would push him off, push him down, make him lift his sore rosy bottom high in the air and tug himself off against it. He'd bathe it in his seed, smear it into Merlin's skin, push it up inside him with a finger until…

Arthur bears down, hand stilling on his cock, letting Merlin's frantic thrusting stoke the deeper fire within until there's no stopping it, no more air left to burn. He jerks from the force of his climax, gasping into the pillow, wordlessly urging Merlin to keep going with one flailing arm and whatever spasming strength he has left.

Merlin starts keening into his ear, breath coming in laboured gasps. He clutches Arthur's hip, his hair, gags himself on Arthur's shoulder when he starts muttering in the old tongue and finally comes just as the first rays of sunlight come lancing in through the windows. Arthur swears he can hear the glass vibrating in its lead cames, sees a swirl of dust motes kick up into a dancing spiral. He blinks at it as Merlin rolls off him, watches as it disperses across a sunbeam.

* * *

"Should close your drapes at night," Merlin mumbles.

Arthur turns his head to look at him. He's on his back with his ankles demurely crossed, one arm flung across his eyes and the other resting on his heaving belly.

"That's your job, actually."

Merlin snorts. He shifts his arm so Arthur can see one bright eye, peering over at him. "Don't suppose I could…" He waggles his fingers.

"Go on then. Just this once." The smile Arthur gets in response is far more blinding than the sunlight – or the flash of gold that briefly overtakes the blue.

Once the room's nestled again in grey shadows, Arthur rolls over onto his back. He stretches, scratching his belly, clenching his arse. He thinks to check the scrape he'd got on his arm when Merlin had shoved him to the ground and finds that, as suspected, it looks as if it happened a week ago. 

"However, you are going to have to do something about the healing magic. People are going to notice if all my wounds start disappearing overnight. And – " Arthur plucks Merlin's hand off his belly and draws it up to his face, idly examining it, wondering exactly how it all works. " – I can't be waking up feeling bloody fantastic every day. I rely on my morning ill-humour to set the tone in training. If I start slacking off with the knights… Merlin, the entire kingdom could be in peril."

Merlin laughs, a bright peal that subsides into silent shaking, the mattress jiggling beneath them. He shimmies nearer, until they are touching all down their sides, and flops his head beside Arthur's.

"Never fear, m'lord. I shall endeavour to find novel ways to annoy you."

"That… You know, I think that could work."

"Good."

Arthur kisses Merlin's knuckles. "Kingdom saved."

"And all before breakfast."

"Speaking of which…"

Merlin groans, tugging his hand away. "That's my job, too, I take it?"

The first thing Merlin does after rising is sashay over to the drapes and, with a mischievous look over his shoulder, open them wide. Arthur throws a pillow at him, then tugs another over his face. He hears Merlin puttering around, pouring himself a cup of water, exclaiming over the mess they'd made round the bath, using the chamberpot. 

Eventually Arthur sits up and flips the pillow back behind him, watching Merlin rinse his face and hunt down his clothes. It's as he's tugging up the shapeless trousers that Arthur notices the mark again, the one below his left shoulder blade that he'd first seen in the Spangled Goat, and had taken for a birthmark of some sort. It's darker than he remembered, lit fully now by the light coming in the windows.

"Merlin, is that… Come here a moment."

"What?" Merlin looks at him like he's asked for a singing horse, but he comes willingly enough. Arthur scoots to the edge of the bed and gestures for him to turn around.

And yes, he sees it now. Facing the other way round, flying to the left instead of the right, but unmistakeable. Unbelievable.

"This," he says, putting a finger to it. Merlin shivers. "How did you get this?"

"I was born with it."

"But surely not, it's… Have you ever seen it?"

Merlin looks over his shoulder, brow arched high. "Why, yes, through the sorcery of the average looking glass. Have merchants not yet apprised Camelot of such wonders?"

Arthur ignores the impertinence, diving instead for one of the key rings beside his bed. "So you know what it is?"

Merlin chuckles. "I know it's well canny for a bird in flight. The old ones call it _friðutácn_ , a sign of peace and plenty."

"It's my mother's – " Arthur breaks off, realising how mad he must sound without the proof in hand. He hastens to the chest at the foot of his bed, unlocks it, and piles old leather goods, tabards and ceremonial weapons to one side until he can retrieve the carved chest that Bedwyr's father had made for him. 

He unlocks it and sets it on the bed in front of Merlin. "Go on," he says. "Open it."

The green silk purse is on top, just as Arthur left it – just as he always leaves it on the occasions when he gives in to sentiment and brings it out to stroke or press to his lips.

Merlin's eyes go very wide. He touches his fingertips to it, saying, "Is this…?"

"Yes, but look beneath."

Merlin glances at him, then gently sets the purse aside and lifts the flat bundle below, setting it in his palm and peeling the cloth wrapper away.

Arthur crowds in close, one hand on Merlin's shoulder as he studies the brooch. "That belonged to my mother, Ygraine." He points at the graceful bird, depicted mid-flight, that dominates the design. "This was her sigil. Fortuna's dove, Gaius called it, though he said it has many names."

"But…I thought she was a de Bois?"

"She was," Arthur says, caressing the bird's outspread wing with a fingertip. The upper edge gleams, as does the bird's plump breast – all the raised details rubbed shiny from handling.

"They march under the war eagle, do they not? This is not their crest."

"No. My mother chose this as her personal seal, after she married." Arthur steps back, studying Merlin, puzzled by his reaction. "What of it? Do you not see the similarity to your mark?"

Merlin nestles the brooch back in the chest and turns around, face solemn. "Son of the _Dove_ ," he says, tears welling in his eyes. "All this time… I've been such an idiot."

"What is it? Whatever is the matter?" Merlin is biting his lip now. Arthur takes him by the shoulders and strokes his arms, trying to soothe his distress.

"The prophecies. I always knew… Arthur, from the moment you told me your name, I knew I was destined to help you, but – "

"Destined?" Arthur says, dubious.

"Yes. Let me finish, you great prat." Merlin sniffs, angrily brushing away the tears. "You know that I work magic, but… It's not just ordinary spells and things, what I can do. Anyone can learn spells. My magic's part of me, instinctual."

"I'd noticed," Arthur says, nodding towards the bed, trying to lighten the mood.

"Yes, well, that's not the half of it," Merlin mutters, and resumes nibbling on his lower lip. He seems so flustered – so profoundly uncomfortable – that Arthur swallows his natural scepticism and cups his cheek, nodding for him to continue.

"I'm… Among the old ones and their followers, I am known as Emrys. It's said that my powers are destined to aid the Son of the Dragon, Father of all Albion, also known as the Once and Future King."

"Once and – "

"Future, yes. Don’t get a big head about it. And it doesn't mean you're immortal, so don't go taking stupid risks."

"Never," Arthur says gravely.

Merlin narrows his eyes at him, but plunges on. "I learnt of this when I was but a boy. Nine summers, finally apprenticed like the few other children who'd shown signs of magic, thinking myself lucky that the great Taliesin had happened through our village and invited me to study with him at the sacred caves.

"But the voices I heard there, the things I saw in the crystals, visions of the…the horrible old man, the _murderer_ I would become… Arthur, no child should see such things." Merlin closes his eyes briefly. When he reopens them, his gaze drifts to Arthur's mouth. 

"And even then, I knew that I was not like the other boys I trained with. So…" He reaches up, mirroring Arthur's gesture, then pulls him into a kiss. It's soft, but far from chaste. Arthur breaks out all over in gooseflesh.

"So I ran away," Merlin whispers. "I pledged myself to the Triple Goddess instead, and she showed me a path to a different fate. Or so I thought." 

"I'm sorry, Merlin, but I don’t understand."

"They're both _you._ " Merlin takes Arthur's hands and enfolds them in his own, giving him an exasperated look. "Son of the Dragon, Father of all Albion. That is the man I am prophesied to walk behind on his path to greatness, but Son of the Dove… That is the man the Triple Goddess revealed to me as my heart's equal. The only one who might see me for all that I am, and help me change the fate I saw in the crystals."

Merlin glances down, squeezing Arthur's hands. "And I might have… That night and ever since, I've pretended it's you, for I've found none other I love so well – and it made it easier, somehow, to leave Essetir – but I saw no way it could ever be true." He looks up again, giving a small shrug. "I assumed such a man must have magic to be my equal, that the dove bit was symbolic, meaning a humble man of peace and great wisdom."

Arthur narrows his eyes. "I beg your pardon?"

"Apologies." Merlin cracks a tiny smile. "I'm sure you'll get there, sire – or, to be fair, let's say we'll get there together. I did fail to consider that the prophecy might be so literal."

"Hmpf." Arthur's brimming with doubts, his mind buzzing and his heart too full – yet he knows in some deep part of himself that he believes Merlin, same as he secretly believes Morgana's not lying when she tells him of her dreams, or that there's a dragon kept prisoner beneath the castle, or that loving Uther is not the same as blindly obeying him – so all he says is, "Well, prophecy or no, Merlin, I've already said that I am yours. And I… No disrespect to your goddess or the old ones, but I could not name another on whom I'd wish to find my mother's chosen mark."

He draws Merlin close, kissing his forehead, then – after he's certain he has full command of his voice, if not his emotions – orders him to finish dressing and go fetch them some breakfast.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> The prostitution, crossdressing and genderbending tags apply to Merlin only. However, in the story's universe these concepts are not explicitly related to kink so much as they are a given part of Merlin's chosen identity and role in society as a "skirtswain" - a (to clumsily translate into modern parlance) biologically male, genderfluid, female-presenting sex worker & devotee of the Triple Goddess who is primarily attracted to and interested in having sex with men. However, as the story is told from Arthur's POV (as an initial foreigner to Merlin's culture and worldview), pronoun usage and perception of topics related to gender & sexuality follow his understanding of such in the moment.


End file.
